Moore To Love (31 page)

By the time I’m off the train and walking toward Lane’s apartment, all thoughts of Tatum and her love life are far gone. It’s been a whole seven days since I’ve last seen him and to say I feel deprived is putting it mildly. I miss him. A lot. And even though we speak every day, it’s not the same as seeing those adorable dimples in person or having his lips against mine.

For the first time in forever, I know how it feels to have everything I want. Don’t get me wrong, there are a million and one superficial things I could think of that I wouldn’t dare deny if they were handed to me on a silver platter. But—none of that matters. Even the ten pounds I put back on since coming home from Miami.
Pounds, shmounds. Who cares?
I’m still keeping up with Jane and Mandy’s workout routine and I haven’t gone to hell in a hand basket with my old eating habits, but—I don’t know—it’s not my sole focus anymore. They say when you’re happy in a relationship you gain weight. If that’s the case, I should be morbidly obese, but I’ll settle for what I am right now because it’s still better than where I was a few months ago.

Rounding a corner, I pull out my phone to text Lane that I’m outside. When I look up, he’s already there, waiting for me with an ear to ear grin. I contemplate pulling a dramatic stunt like tossing my bags to the ground and running into his arms, but he’s at my side faster than I expect.

“Hey, babe. I’m so happy to see you.” He kisses me smack on the lips. No wasting time, no pause to let me reply, just lips on lips and oh, does it feel so good. I let the heavy overnight bag fall from my grip and wrap my arms around his neck.

“They say absence makes the heart grow fonder,” I mumble against his lips and melt into his touch. He has one hand burrowed in my hair, the other pulling me against him from my waist.

“Fond. Me. Very.” Our foreheads rest against the other’s, our inhales and exhales releasing in time.

I breathe is his musky man scent and then kiss him again, this time nipping his bottom lip between my teeth. “You. Mine. Now.”

Lane laughs, smooching my neck and then leaning down to grab the duffel I dropped during our sweet reunion. “Come on up. It’s cold out here.”

“Is it?” I joke because it’s actually quite chilly, but the truth is I’m an inferno inside. It could be ten below out here and I’d still be on fire from the way Lane makes me feel.

With his free hand, Lane tangles his fingers with mine and guides me down the street to a green side door next to a storefront. It’s a small, rundown looking bookstore that I find absolutely charming compared to the oversized commerciality of places like Barnes &Noble.

“Have you ever been in there?” I ask, wishing it weren’t closed so I could peruse the shelves just for fun.

“Only to pay my rent.”

I pout, looking over my shoulder as Lane leads me up a dark stairway. “Shame. It looks adorable.”

“Really? Looks kind of old to me.”

I wag my finger back and forth. “Remember, looks can be deceiving, Mr. Sheffield. It’s what’s inside that matters, and I’m sure that old, dilapidated bookstore is full of more quality literature than Amazon can shake a stick at.”

“Yeah?” Lane turns the knob on a wood-paneled door, wedging it open and smirking at me. “You think Amazon wants to shake a stick at the secret back room full of porn, too?”

“Oh.” I utter. Even I don’t have a witty reply for that one.

Lane’s laugh rolls through his entire body, his shoulders rising and falling. He places a soft kiss on the tip of my nose and walks into the one-room space. “We can still go tomorrow if you want. They open at nine. Maybe you’ll find something you like, after all.”

“Nah, I’ll pass. But—” I step into the tiny apartment and even though I’m dying to look around the entire studio, my senses are assaulted by the most delicious smell. “Oh my God! Lane did you make Thai food? Tell me you can’t actually
cook
Thai food because Thai food is my favorite. And it’s so delicious and savory and so . . . Thai.”

“That’s an awful lot of Thais in one sentence.”

I tilt my head and smile. “Seriously, though? Did you really cook my favorite meal or—this is takeout, right? You can’t be this perfect, Lane. Something’s gotta give.” I rush over to the two-person table, set with mismatched dishes and flickering votive candles. It’s flush against one wall of the little kitchen and covered with plated food that smells and looks divine.

Lane comes up behind me and slips his hands into the front pockets of my jeans. I lean into him, and welcome his sweet, tickly whispers in my ear. “Well, I’m far from perfect, but I did in fact cook your favorite meal.”

I spin around and throw my arms around his neck again. “The way to my heart is totally through my stomach, but you knew that already and if
I
didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re on some weird mission to fatten me up.”

“No such mission exists, Leni. I just like making you happy—however I can.”

“I would’ve been happy with celery sticks just to be here with you.” I nuzzle into the warm space where his neck curves into his shoulder, slyly eyeing the rest of the apartment. I’m trying to get a glimpse of where Lane has made his home, and although I’m eager to get the two-cent tour, my mouth is watering from the dinner he’s prepared.

“Can we dig in before I eat your arm?” My stomach growls and the sound somehow reaches Lane’s ears.

“I’m glad you brought your appetite.” He laughs, pulling back from our embrace to stare into my eyes. His are a deep, intensified emerald—aroused. I’m not sure if it’s all this kissing, the food talk, or just an effect I have over him whenever we’re together. Either way, I gaze back and feel myself falling.

I’ve never been here before.
In love.
For a brief time back in college I thought I was with Alex, but that was more of a crazy crush than the real thing. This? Lane. The whole entire thing—I’m pretty sure it’s the real thing. It has to be. I haven’t even had sex with the dude and already I’m hoping to have his babies one day.

“WHERE’D YOU LEARN TO COOK
like that, Lane? And if you tell me you googled it, I’m gonna kill you.” I literally lick my lips of any remaining peanut curry sauce and take a breath to expand my lungs and very full belly.

“Then I’m safe from your threats. I took a course when I moved to New York. Part of my whole embracing my new surroundings thing.”

“You’re a man of many talents, aren’t you?”

“I guess you could say that, but I never really honed in on one. I . . . dabble . . . in a little bit of everything.”

The way he says dabble makes me giggle. I lean over the table, which doesn’t take much effort since it’s almost as small as a shoe box, and trace the pad of my finger along the thick veins in his hand. “What else are you hiding from me?”

Lane withdraws from my touch and stands from the table, taking our plates to the sink. I swear I sense a trace of nervousness on his part, but it’s not enough to mention and spoil an already amazing night. I’ve come to the realization that Lane doesn’t like to talk about himself, and when I put the spotlight on him he flees from the situation. I’m not sure if he’s just modest or if there’s something more pressing underneath there. Either way, I’m not about to make him uncomfortable after he just fed me the best meal I’ve had in God knows how long.

“Let me help you with that,” I say, pushing my chair from the table and bringing a platter over to the sink.

“You don’t have to. I don’t mind.” Lane smiles over his shoulder, his hands already sudsy.

I kiss his cheek and swipe a handful of foamy bubbles while he’s not looking, only to plop them on to the tip of his nose.

I laugh and back away, but Lane’s slippery hands drop the fork he was cleaning and he hurls straight for me. “Oh, you’re gonna get it!” He shakes the bubbles from his face, a single, thick drop of water sliding down his nose as he comes after me.

“Not if you can’t catch me,” I tease. I
so
want him to catch me, wet hands and all, but part of the fun is the thrill of the chase and playing hard to get. I’ll entertain that game and lead him right to the sofa, which I’m pretty sure serves as his bed since I don’t see one anywhere in sight.

“You little . . .” Lane dodges between a chair and an end table, but I dart past him and wind up tripping over a stack of books on the floor, face first over the arm of the couch.

“Ouch,” I grumble, wincing at the pain of stubbing my toe.

“Shit! You okay?” Lane comes up behind me, wet hands at my shoulders, pulling me up from my face plant.

Eye to eye, I examine the moment. It’s a mix of hilarity and passion—two things that make my heart pump wilder than anything else. Except chocolate, of course. The water’s still running from the faucet, Lane’s face is wet from my bubble assault, and his soaked hands have dampened my shirt to the point of wanting to strip it off. A rush of varying foolish emotions catch me off guard and I find myself ready to confess the deepest parts of my soul.

“Lane, I think—”

He doesn’t let me finish, though. His lips crash to mine and with no time to gauge what’s about to happen, it’s as if he read my mind and understands this shirt needs to get the hell out of our way.

Lips, hands, breaths, moans. It happens so quickly, I don’t know how to make sense of it all. The water is still flowing from the kitchen faucet, a strange but soothing background music to our heated embrace. If that’s what you want to call it. This is no sweet, love making prelude. This is raw and carnal and
finally
happening.

Lane’s in control, his tongue still navigating my mouth as if he’s steering my body to do what it’s told. I have no complaints, no inhibitions, not even as he slides my jeans down my thick thighs and undresses me down to a bra and panty set I secretly hoped would get his approval tonight.

Without breaking our kiss, Lane’s damp hands explore my entire body. “So beautiful,” he groans as his fingers grab and caress every inch of my exposed skin.

Okay, so I do have one teensy complaint. Lane’s clothes. They’re still on and that’s an issue. We need to get rid of those pesky things so we can finish what we started before he changes his mind again. I reach between us, where our bodies are grinding, creating a punishing but wonderful friction. In one motion, I unzip his pants and then hook my fingers into the waist of his jeans and boxers, working them over his round but rock-hard ass. Lane aids me in ridding him of the obstructions, swiftly standing and pulling everything down the rest of the way. I try to steal a peek of his goods, but before I can ogle, he returns to his rightful place between my legs.

“Your shirt,” I point out, wanting the skin-on-skin contact in the worst way.

My efforts to strip him down go ignored as time stands still and whooshes past us in equal measure. Bra, panties, socks, boxers—all gone. At one point I hear a foil wrapper and feel Lane sheathing himself against my thigh, all while his lips trail ardent kisses along exposed bits of my skin.

There’s no time to question or second guess or to even speak for that matter. And you know what? I don’t care! I’ve been trying to make this happen for a while now and I’m not about to set us back for a stupid shirt, even if I do wish I could feel Lane’s muscular arms and washboard abs writhing against me while we make love.